


No title

by Ksar



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 20:58:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21004067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ksar/pseuds/Ksar
Summary: Will the loop be unbroken?





	No title

Eight years have passed since we met each other, and each time I seem to drift away from you. I cannot say for sure what could have prompted this; and would you — hell, even I — believe if I answered this question?

You know, the room I write in is usually somewhat bright— just not to hurt further my already poor eyesight. Now it seems as if the whole place was gobbled up without chewing by some creature. A creature that is so pitch black that the inside of it had become something otherworldly eons ago. A… putrid, fetid darkness, reeking of uncharted and purposefully obscure, not meant to be found.

Eight years. God. Feels like an eternity, would you not agree? A lot has happened, yes. Maybe this will be one of those "stop-this-right-now" moments when I have a strong desire to send this to you. Just be alright out there, okay?

Someone had carelessly stuffed the letter in between the other correspondence, that was the reason why I missed it entirely. Yet it arrived anonymously. No signature, no name. Nothing. A blank, filled to the brim of incoherent words. I never was that popular with people so that they would outright start writing me such baffling addresses. Was it someone I knew or met at any point? Probably not. It could not be.

Something was off. I could not put my finger on it, but intuition awoke all of a sudden, stronger and more tangible in the air than before, and gave the order to pack everything right now. Paranoia does that to you sometimes: paralyzes your acumen, makes it unbearable for you to focus on anything of value, be it an actual job or the loved ones; it closes in on you, fills the head to the top with murky water called anxiety, and then boils it. Boils until you have grown downright suicidal, then it staggers yet again; after that, your arms and the whole body become numb. You do not feel a thing. But the feeling of something, or _someone, _is already breathing down your neck. You are feeling it too right now, do you not? A cold drip of sweat, running down the forehead, — and the back already feels stiff. Placed in a refrigerator, but not like Indiana Jones was. You are inside a brand new, fully functioning ice chamber.

Why were you reading all of this before? Or was it now? I am long dead anyway, and you cannot do anything about it. Not a damn thing, you hear me? Get me out of here, you fat pig! Do something!

As it was growing darker, I had no more defenses left to keep me up and about. There was nothing I could do but to—

Yes. Write a letter. I began with a time stamp. Not necessarily long ago, but for visibility. An old acquaintance of someone decided to get in touch with someone. Eight years have passed since we last met each other. Perfect. Just a paragraph is enough.

As I was closing in on the end of my writing, any strength I had vanished from the body. Not a single person was coming to mind, so I just wrote an address.

God help this person.

God help us all as we descend into utter oblivion and madness of our never-ending, tormenting breath.


End file.
